The Quirks of Terran Biology
by Eileen
Summary: When Peter falls ill, he insists it's no big deal. His team, however, disagree, especially when they find out about a volatile little Terran organ called an appendix. Chapter 3 up now! After a long charity walk, Peter finds it hard just keeping his feet on the ground. But he'll need to be fast on his feet with an assassin on board the ship.
1. Chapter 1

"We'll need to stop for supplies fairly soon," Gamora was saying, but Peter Quill didn't appear to be paying attention. "I've made a shopping list, along with a list of the best markets on each world for specialty items and-Peter, are you listening to me?"

"Mm-hmm," he moaned, his eyes closed. He wasn't asleep, though; she could tell when he was asleep.

She saw that one arm was wrapped around his midsection. "Is your stomach still bothering you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You should go to the med bay and have the autodoc check you out."

"Mm-mm."

"Why not?"

"Cause it'll pass. It always does. It's just indigestion, Mora, it's not gonna kill me."

"When will it pass? It's been two days."

"Had it for a week once. Thought I was gonna die, but I made it through. It's fine."

"Will you at least go to bed, then?"

This made him open his eyes and stare at her in shock. Then a big grin spread across his face.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Quill! I meant that you should rest, that's all."

"Yeah, later." He closed his eyes again.

She sighed, pushed the button for the autopilot, and hauled him up out of his chair. "Come on," she said, practically dragging him down the corridor.

"Hey, hey! I can walk!"

"I doubt it." She never even slowed down until she reached Peter's private quarters, where she turned down the bed and helped him lie down.

Peter noticed that the sheets felt considerably less crunchy than they usually did. "You change my sheets?"

"They were disgusting."

"No one's changed my bed for me since . . . since my mom. Thanks."

"Don't get used to it. I'm not your maid." But she was smiling as she said it.

"Okay, you can go now. I'll be fine." He settled into soft warmth, feeling suddenly drowsy.

"Are you sure?"

"I told you, I've had this before. Some foods just don't work with my fragile Terran digestion. I thought I knew them all, but I guess I was wrong."

"Half-Terran," she corrected him.

"Whatever. Go 'way. Sleepy." He closed his eyes, and felt her smooth the covers up over him. The last thing he heard was her light footsteps as she left the room.

* * *

" . . . think he's dead?"

"I am Groot."

"Green Genes really sounded worried about him. Poke 'im."

"I am Groot?"

"Not hard! Just a little nudge!"

It was at this point that Peter gradually became aware of two things: the ever-present pain in his stomach, and a large furry weight on his legs. He opened one eye and saw Rocket sitting on top of him while Groot, who had grown to almost full size now, leaned over the bed from the side.

"Hey! Get off!" He tried unsuccessfully to push the raccoon-like creature off the bed. "C'mon, guys, I was sleeping."

"Guess he's not dead, then."

"I am Groot."

"Dead? Why would you think I was-nnnnnh!" Peter tried to sit up, and the pain in his stomach got worse. For a moment, he was afraid he might throw up.

"Shit! He's gonna blow!" Rocket jumped off the bed and retreated as far back as he could. Groot just stared at Peter with a puzzled expression.

"No, I'm . . . I'm okay now. I think."

"So, not getting better, then?"

"Not yet."

"This thing you have . . . it's not . . . contagious, is it?"

Peter sighed. "No, it's just something I ate. I swear that's all it is. Sometimes it's pretty bad, but it goes away after a few days. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

"Why does that sound like famous last words? Like 'Oh, he won't bite.' Or 'It's okay, I know what I'm doing.' Not exactly inspiring a lot of confidence in me."

"I am Groot."

"Okay, fine, we're goin'. We've done our duty here. He's been checked on. I got more important things to do now anyway." Rocket shuffled out the door. "You comin'?"

Groot paused and looked back. "I am Groot?"

"It's okay," Peter said, lowering himself back onto the bed. "I'm just gonna go back to sleep now."

Groot reached out with a tendril no thicker than a child's pinky and gently stroked Peter's cheek. "I am Groot."

"Thanks, Groot." The half-Terran rolled over and fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

When he woke next, the ship was in darkness. There was no true day or night in space, but during the down times, they turned off as many lights as possible to save energy.

Gradually Peter became aware of another presence in the room. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Twenty-two-thirty," came a deep rumble.

Peter started to sit up, then he remembered how bad an idea that had been last time. "Drax?"

"Are you feeling any better?"

"A little. I think. Wow, it's hot in here."

A massive hand rested gently on his forehead for a moment. "You have a fever."

"Oh. Guess I'm not getting better, then." Peter tried shifting position again, and his body reminded him of the pain. "Nnnnh!"

"Is it a sharp pain?"

"What? Oh, no, not really. Only when I move. Usually it's more like an ache. Just kind of a general uncomfortable feeling. A heaviness, like I swallowed a ton of bricks."

Drax frowned. "Do you regularly consume building materials?"

"What? No!"

"Was that another metaphor, then?"

"Yeah. You're getting better at recognizing them." He tried to say something else, but all that came out was a huge yawn. "Sorry. Don't know why I'm so tired. All I've done for the past day or so is sleep."

"You are ill. Sleep may be the best thing for you. Do you require anything?"

"Jus' sleep. And a time machine. So I can go back to three days ago and pick a different restaurant. What the hell did I eat, anyway? I'm usually so careful about knowing what's in everything. Unless I'm drunk. Was I drunk?"

"Not before we ordered dinner."

"You remember what I had? There was some kinda sauce on it. Coulda been something in the sauce. I always ask, though."

"It was _teelbat_ with _ninga_ sauce."

"Nah, that wouldn't do it. I've had _teelbat_ and _ninga_ before without any problems. Some kinda spice, maybe?"

"I don't know."

"There wasn't any _wahudi_, was there? Worst reaction I ever had in my life was to _wahudi. _I was throwing up so much I almost ended up in the hospital. This kinda feels like that. Getting there, anyway."

"Should we bring you to the hospital, then?" There was concern on Drax's face; he really believed Peter's condition was serious, possibly even life-threatening.

"Nnnnh . . . not yet. 'S not that bad yet."

"If this is what you call 'not bad,' I would hate to see what you consider an emergency."

"Yeah, come back when I'm spewing from both ends and can't even walk for the pain," Peter said almost flippantly. "I'm tired. Need sleep."

"Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"Mm-mm."

"Is that a no?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. No, I don't need anything. Lemme sleep a while longer. Maybe I'll try and eat something in the morning."

"All right, then." Drax left the room, and after a few minutes of waiting for everything to settle down again, Peter fell asleep again.

* * *

" . . . still think he should see a doctor."

"Why? He said he's fine! It'll pass!"

"I doubt that. He seems to be getting worse."

"Maybe it gets worse before it gets better."

"I am Groot."

"Whaddya mean, his color's not good? That's what color he's s'posed ta be!"

"He does look rather pale."

A soft hand gently caressed his brow. Peter leaned into the touch, but then his stomach lurched and he sat up suddenly.

"Bowl!"he croaked out, struggling to hold down whatever was threatening to evacuate his system.

A moment later, a metal trash bin was hastily shoved under his chin. He spit up what seemed to be mainly bile and water. When had he eaten last?

What day was it?

"Here." Gamora held a glass of water to his lips. He took a sip, rinsed, and spat into the bin. "We didn't mean to wake you."

"How was I supposed to sleep with you all standing over me arguing about whether or not I'm dying?"

"Peter," she said, "we're your friends. We're only concerned for your well-being. You seem to be growing steadily worse instead of better. I think it's time to go to the hospital."

"No!" he said, a little too forcefully. "I hate hospitals. Have to be dying to even consider setting foot in one. Besides which, we're light-years away from any that have experience treating Terrans. Okay, half-Terrans. Same difference."

"The med bay, then. If it can't figure out what's wrong with you, **then **we go to the hospital."

"Have fun," he said, and closed his eyes.

The next sensation he felt was of strong arms enfolding him, lifting him out of his bed and carrying him like a baby. How humiliating.

"Put me down, Drax," he said. "I can walk."

"You cannot even stay awake more than a few minutes at a time," the warrior countered. "Let me help you."

"I could shoot him," Rocket offered.

There was a smack. "Ow! Whaaaat? I meant a stunner! He's more cooperative when he's out cold!"

"I am Groot."

"Yeah, you're right, he is going back to sleep already."

_No, I'm not_, Peter wanted to tell him, but for some reason he couldn't get his mouth to work. It felt like he was floating on the ceiling . . .

* * *

_And then, he drifts back in time, and he's nine years old again. He's curled up in his bunk, and his stomach hurts so bad, he can't even move. He's supposed to be on duty right now, but he can't get out of bed. He can't even open his eyes._

_The door bangs open and he whimpers and burrows down into his covers, but a rough hand yanks them back. _

"_Damn it, boy, you get outta that bed now and get to work! This ain't a hotel, it's a working ship, and if you want to eat, you need to work!"_

_The mere mention of eating makes Peter want to barf. He hasn't eaten a thing since the night before last, when dinner had consisted of some strange unidentifiable meat along with a stringy green vegetable that tasted horrible. He ate it anyway, because Yondu told him that if he doesn't eat what's in front of him, he won't get any more. _

_But all day yesterday he had pains in his stomach, and they just got worse and worse, and now he's lying here in pain and feeling like he's about to puke, and Yondu is all in his face about getting up and doing his duty. As if._

"_You hear me, boy?"_

_Peter opens his mouth to reply, and suddenly his stomach lurches and a flood of vomit comes shooting out of his mouth and splashes all over the bed. He's covered in it, and it smells disgusting. _

"_Well, shit," Yondu says, but he doesn't sound mad anymore. The next thing Peter knows, he's scooped up out of his sticky, smelly bed, and carried down the hall to the ship's med bay. He opens his eyes along the way, but the sensation of movement makes him feel dizzy, so he closes his eyes again until he is gently but firmly set down on a metal table. _

_He hears the whine of a scan and holds as still as he possibly can, despite the pain in his stomach and the uncomfortable sensation that he's not done throwing up today. He just hopes that this time, Yondu is out of the line of fire._

"_Well? What's wrong with 'im?"_

"_It appears to be some sort of food intolerance," says the doctor. He's not really a doctor, but he's in charge of the med bay, so they call him Doctor. "I'll need to know everything he's eaten for the past twenty-four to forty-eight hours."_

"_He's had the same stuff everyone else had."_

"_Yes, but with his . . . unique body chemistry . . . some foods which others tolerate don't seem to agree with our poor boy here."_

"_Is he gonna die?"_

"_Of course not! If the reaction were life-threatening, we would have known it long before now. He just needs plenty of rest and fluid replacement."_

"_For how long?"_

"_I would say two, three days at most. I just want to run a few tests to pin down exactly what it was that caused this reaction, and then he can return to his own room."_

"_Can't you just give him a pill or somethin' that'll fix it now?"_

"_It's not that simple. By now his entire system has been affected."_

"_Waste of damn time," Yondu snarls, and Peter, being young as he is, jumps to the wrong conclusion and thinks that the captain's saying that __**he's **__a waste of time. Hot tears squeeze themselves from the corners of his eyes._

* * *

" . . . not . . . a waste . . ."

"Hush, Peter, hold still for a moment," said a woman's voice, and it took Peter a moment to remember where he was. He wasn't nine years old, he was thirty-four, and this was his ship and his crew and . . .

He slowly opened his eyes. "Weird dream. If it was a dream. What's going on?"

Gamora was staring up at the computer screen attached to the diagnostic bed. "We've run the scan five times," she told him. "Every time, it comes up the same: Inconclusive."

"In other words," said Rocket, who was sitting at the foot of the bed, "that thing doesn't know any more than the rest of us."

"_Wahudi_," Peter breathed softly.

Gamora stared at him. "What?"

"The last time I was sick like this, it was caused by _wahudi_. My body can't process it, I guess. Did you test for it?"

"How are we supposed to do that?"

"I don't know! I don't remember! I was a little kid at the time, and I was sick and miserable and I just wanted it to stop! I wasn't taking notes! Nnnnnhhhhhhh!" he groaned, as his body protested. The pain in his midsection was approaching nuclear, and he didn't want his friends splattered by the fallout.

"That's it," said Gamora. "Turn the ship around. We're taking him to Xandar. They know how to treat him there."

"My ship," Peter said weakly.

"And you're clearly unfit for duty. I'm making an executive decision. If we let this go much longer . . ."She deliberately left the sentence unfinished, as if merely speaking the words could make it happen.

"You guys heard her," Peter ordered the rest of his crew. "We're going to Xandar. Break galactic speed limits, if you have to."

"All right!" Rocket exclaimed. "Time for some fun at last! I mean," he amended, catching Drax's dark look, "you know, we're on a mission of mercy. Doesn't mean we can't have fun doing it!"

"I should think caution would be more important than fun, at a time like this."

"Yeah, well, that's cause you have no imagination. C'mon, Groot."

But the tree-creature refused to leave Peter's side. He stayed out of Gamora's way as much as he could, but he wouldn't leave the room at all, keeping a silent vigil over his ailing friend.

This was really starting to creep him out. "What is it?"he asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

The assassin paused in checking his vital signs and sighed. "I ran a search," she began, "on causes of abdominal pain in Terrans."

"And?"

"I found an article on something called appendicitis. Were you aware that you possessed a small but useless organ deep within your abdominal cavity, that when inflamed could cause a reaction similar to what you're experiencing?"

He tried to make sense of this. He was sooooooo tired, he just wanted to go back to sleep, but this was important. "I've heard of it. What about it?"

"The article said that it could be . . . fatal."

Oh, so that was what was bothering her. "I'm pretty sure," he said, "that I don't have appendicitis."

"Peter, the symptoms all match."

"It's _wahudi_, I know it is."

"You can't possibly know that for sure!"

"I'm about seventy percent sure. I've had it before, remember."

"Well, I refuse to take chances. Time is short; the article said that if left untreated, the organ could burst within as little as seventy-two hours. It's been at least that already! We may already be too late!"

It was as close to panic as he had ever seen her, and it was all his fault. If he'd just gone for the scan when she'd told him to . . .

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling himself begin to drift away. "If I don't . . . make it . . . I want you to know . . ."

"What?" she asked, but he was already asleep. She checked his breathing to make sure he was just asleep and not . . . no, she wouldn't even think it. He would make it, he had to!

"I am Groot."

"What?" She looked up, only to see Groot holding out a small white flower to her. "Oh. Thanks, Groot." She tucked the flower behind her ear for now. So what if no one else saw it? She appreciated the gesture.

"I am Groot?" He was looking down at Peter, who twitched and mumbled in his sleep.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," she said, but in reality, she wasn't at all sure. But he had to make it, he just had to! Without him . . . they'd all fall apart.

* * *

Peter didn't wake up until the ship landed on Xandar, and the emergency medical personnel who met them at the landing site were loading him onto a gurney for transport.

"Wha . . . where-"

"Ssh," one of the med techs, an attractive purple-skinned woman, said. "You're okay. Everything's going to be all right."

"Wan' go home."

"You will," said the other, a male Xandarian. "We're gonna just check you over to make sure you're okay and then you can go home after that."

"Uh huh," Peter said, and fell back asleep again.

* * *

When next he woke, he was in a hospital bed. He looked from the white ceiling to the beeping monitors to the line attached to his arm and felt a sense of panic. He had to get out of here!

"You're not goin' anywhere, boy."

He looked over. Yondu was sitting in a chair beside the bed, reading a magazine with lots of pictures of dead or dying bodies. Kree war manual, then.

"This is another dream," Peter said out loud. "You're not really here."

"You really are an idiot, you know that?"

"Boy, this dream is realistic. You can kill me now. I'll wake up before I die."

"Not gonna kill **you, **Petey. Now tell me who did this to ya."

"Who did what?"

"You know what. This wasn't no accident. Someone gave you the _wahudi _on purpose. I wanna know who."

"I don't know."

"Well, where'd ya eat?"

"Some place on Talos. Duck Dollar . . . something like that."

Yondu nodded. "Dalladuc. I know the place. You take care now, son. I'll see ya soon."

Peter closed his eyes and drifted off, thinking what a strange dream he was having. It had to be a dream, didn't it?

* * *

When he woke up for real, he was still in the hospital, but his friends were there with him. He'd never been so glad to see them in his life.

"Hey, guys," he said.

"Well, it's about time!" Rocket put down the magazine he'd been reading (which looked like the same one Yondu had been looking at in the dream) and came over. "Feels like we been waiting forever!"

"How long have I been out?" Peter asked.

It was Drax who answered him. "Nearly thirty-six hours from the time you were first brought in."

"And you've been hanging out here all this time?"

"We would never leave you," said Gamora.

"Thanks. I guess I owe you an apology. You were right all along. If I'd just gone for the scan when you told me to instead of insisting that it was nothing, I could have saved us all a lot of trouble. At least I'm still alive."

"Finally awake, are we?" A woman who Peter presumed was a doctor came into the room. "And how are we feeling today?"

"Fine." He felt his stomach, and there was almost no pain at all. There were also no bandages across his midsection. "Did they not have to remove it after all?"

"Remove what?"

"My appendix. That's what the trouble was, wasn't it?"

She smiled. "Mr. Quill, you don't actually have an appendix."

"What?"

"Let me show you." She touched the monitor hanging above the bed, and an image appeared. "This is the preliminary scan we did of your abdominal cavity. This here," she said, tapping a corner of the screen with a stylus, "is where the appendix would be in a normal Terran. However . . ."

"I'm only half-Terran," he finished. "That's really weird. Anything else I'm missing that I should know about?"

"Not as far as we can tell."

"So what was the problem, then?"

"To put it simply: you were poisoned."

"You mean, like, actual poison?" This was something he'd never had to deal with before. Peter had always assumed that when his death came, it would be by violent means. Poison was so . . . devious.

"Your father is well-known throughout the galaxy. He has enemies. It seems they are now your enemies as well. One of them infiltrated the kitchen at the Dalladuc Grill and slipped a vial of lethal toxin into your food. He used grated _wahudi _to disguise the taste."

"See, I knew it was _wahudi_," Peter announced triumphantly to his friends.

Gamora gave him a look. "You could have died! Wait, why didn't he die?"

"That's the funny thing. His Terran half managed to slow down his metabolism enough to keep the poison from doing any real damage. We were able to neutralize it and flush it from his system."

"Is that why I was so tired all the time?"

"Yes, exactly. It's like . . ." She struggled for an appropriate analogy. "Like a ship, diverting power from operations to life support. Everything your body had, it put into the effort to keep you alive."

"He is not a ship," said Drax.

"I'll explain it later," said Rocket.

"You're kidding. My weak Terran biology saved my life?" Peter looked around in amazement.

"Whaddya want, a medal?" asked Rocket.

"I am Groot?" Groot was leaning over the bed, studying the monitors.

"He wants to know when we can take Mr. Wonderful here home," the raccoon translated.

"Oh," the doctor said. "Well, we'll want to keep him at least one more night strictly for observation, but the danger has passed. We'll just let him rest for the time being."

"You guys don't have to stay here," Peter told them. "Go get something to eat. Or whatever. I'll be fine."

"There has already been one attempt on your life," said Gamora. "We are not leaving you unguarded."

"Our security is the best on the planet," the doctor pointed out.

"Yeah, no offense or nothin'," said Rocket, "but I've heard that from guys who very quickly wound up dead. No, thanks. One of us'll stay with him at all times. Armed."

"Oh, no, you didn't bring-" Peter had the sudden image of his friends prowling the hospital corridors, brandishing heavy artillery.

"Small arms," the raccoon said with a grin. "We're not completely stupid. So who gets first watch?"

"I don't know if this is the best idea . . ." The doctor was backing away from them slowly, as if sudden movements would cause them to explode.

"Relax! We won't go lookin' for trouble, but if it shows up here . . . we'll deal with it."

"Rocket," Gamora said in a warning tone.

"All right, all right! We'll use stun weapons and call Security right after! Happy now? Thanks for taking care of our boy, by the way. We do appreciate it. C'mon, Groot."

"I am Groot." Groot sat in the chair, planting (not literally) his roots firmly on the floor.

Rocket just shrugged. "Guess that settles who's takin' first watch. Hope that's okay with you, Pete."

"Yeah, it's fine." Sure, they wouldn't be able to have a conversation, but Peter wasn't in the mood for talking, anyway. He was still really tired. His internal batteries (he was sticking with the ship analogy) were at less than thirty percent, but that was all right. He'd saved the universe with twelve percent of a plan. Any number greater than zero was good.

"I am Groot." A twig caressed his forehead.

"Thanks, Groot," Peter mumbled, as he drifted off to the creaking of wood and the sweet smell of flowers.

* * *

The next time he opened his eyes, Groot was gone.

But Rhomann Dey was there.

"Star-Lord," he said. "We have to talk."

"Oh, hey," Peter said, struggling to sit up. At least it wasn't killing his insides to do so now. "What's up?" A torrent of possibilities, none of them good, flooded his brain. "Oh, no, what've they done now?"

"Who?"

"My team. They didn't shoot anybody, did they?"

"No, nothing like that. They're down in the lobby. I came to tell you that we uncovered the identity of the assassin."

"Yeah?"

"We sent a team to the Dalladuc Grill on Rhyssa, but by the time we got there, the suspect was already dead." Dey consulted something on a pad, then looked back at Peter solemnly. "Cause of death appeared to be multiple penetrations with a projectile weapon."

"What?" It had only been a dream, hadn't it? He couldn't possibly have . . . "You don't think my team-"

"No, the staff confirmed they've been here since you were brought in. You don't know anything about it, do you?"

Peter suddenly wished he could see that pad. He had a feeling he knew exactly the "projectile weapon" that had made those wounds.

_You know_, he thought. _And I know you know. And you know that I know you know . . . but if you know anything about me at all, you know that I'd die before I'd betray the only father I've ever had. Sure, I'll steal from him, and double-cross him, but turn him in to the Corps? Never._

"No," he said. "I don't."

Dey looked into his eyes for a moment, and then nodded. "That's what I thought. How're you feeling, by the way?"

"Much better, thanks for asking."

"Must be hard having a target on your back now."

"Oh, I'm not worried," Peter said, lying back and smiling. "I trust my team to watch my back, target or not. They'd rather die than fail me."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Take care, now. I hear they're springing you from this place tomorrow."

"Hopefully. I hate hospitals."

"Yeah, I'm not too crazy about them myself. I'll go tell your friends they can come in now." He paused in the doorway and turned back. "If you did have any idea who might have tracked down and slain the assassin, you'd tell us, wouldn't you?"

"I would," he said. "But I don't know who it was. Not at all."

He owed Yondu that much. The man had promised to take care of him, and he always kept his promises.

Dey consulted something on his pad, checking it off with a magnetic stylus. "Hmm. Okay, then. Get well soon."

"Thanks."

A moment later, his teammates filed in, and Peter realized how lucky he was to have such good people around him. He owed them so much.

_I promised to look out for them, _he thought. _Didn't realize that meant they'd look after me, too. But I'm glad. If I've got assassins after me, I'm gonna need all the help I can get._


	2. More Than Red

"Ow!"

"Don't be a baby." Gamora finished wiping down the wound on Peter's chest and set the red-streaked cloth aside. She picked up a fresh one and soaked it in antiseptic solution. The moment she touched the cloth to the hole in his chest, he squealed in pain.

"Just because you've got no pain receptors," he hissed between his teeth, "doesn't mean the rest of us don't."

"I still have pain receptors," she said. "I just refuse to listen to-will you hold still?"

"I can't help it! It hurts!"

"Serves you right for getting stabbed."

"Oh, so it's my fault? I didn't know the guy had a knife! Or that he'd throw it at me!"

"You should have ducked."

"There wasn't time!"

"At least you'll have another interesting scar to add to your collection."

"Yeah, yeah." He looked away and braced himself as she went in for another pass. "Ow! You're doing that on purpose!"

"Of course I'm doing it on purpose. You don't want it to get infected, do you?"

"I can do this myself, you know! I've been patching myself up since I was a kid!"

"You shouldn't be ashamed to admit you need help."

"This isn't helping! This is torture!"

She stopped and looked him straight in the eye. "You know nothing of torture."

"Okay, you've got me there. I'll be good."

And he was good . . . for a whole minute and a half. Until she got out the needle and sutures and went in to sew him up. He **tried **to hold still, knowing that one slip would make the whole situation ten times worse, but the moment the needle pierced his skin, he felt like a tiny but powerful cattle prod had touched his flesh and discharged ten thousand volts into his body. "GODDAMMIT!"

She stopped what she was doing and glared at him. "Do I have to put you in restraints?"

"No, I . . . I think you must've hit the nerve or something. Damn, that hurts!"

"We could take you to a hospital and let the professionals do it properly."

"No." The mere mention of the word "hospital" was a deal-breaker. "Please. I'm okay. Just gimme a minute."

"We cannot leave this wound open much longer. I'll try to be more careful."

"Okay." He took a deep breath and braced himself. "I'm ready now."

"Hold **still**. I mean it." The second time the needle went in, it wasn't as bad. It still hurt, but it was a pain that Peter could manage. He gritted his teeth and tried not to flinch.

"Hey, how's it goin'?" Rocket sauntered in, took a look at the gaping hole in Peter's chest, and hissed between his teeth. "Guy got ya good, didn't he?"

Peter didn't dare reply. He was trying not to breathe too deeply. He wasn't looking, either. Looking was bad.

"Wow, your blood's red too, huh?" Rocket looked at the discarded cloth. "Didn't know that."

"Why?" Gamora asked. "What color did you think it was?"

The raccoon shrugged. "I dunno. Could be anything. Red, or blue, or purple . . . what color's yours? Green?"

"Green-ish. In some lights it looks black. Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Don't distract me. I'm almost finished."She finished the suturing, tied it off, and stuck a sterile dressing over it. "You can breathe now, Peter."

Peter took in a great big gasp of air, then winced when the expansion of his chest pulled at his stitches. "Ow! Guess I'd better not do that again. Thanks, Mora. Looks good. You, um, you do this a lot?"

"I try not to get injured in the first place."

"Yeah, we **try**, but stuff happens. You think I wanted this to happen?"

"You seem to take unnecessary risks too much of the time," she said. She moved around and started to put the supplies back where they belonged.

"You know," he said, "I was ten or eleven years old before I found out that everyone in the universe didn't have red blood."

"Really?" she said. "And how did you find this out?"

"The hard way."

* * *

_It's the first time Peter has ever been on a mission gone wrong, and he's finding that he doesn't like it very much. _

_He isn't there for the shooting; he's just supposed to stay with the ship and keep a lookout for anything dangerous, and then tell Nardo, who's the pilot this time around, to get ready for takeoff._

_Only there isn't time to warn anyone when he sees the men come running up the hill. When he sees the way Kraglin is practically carrying Yondu, Peter's heart sinks. He hasn't been on a mission yet where someone died . . . but this day isn't over yet._

_"__What happened?" Nardo asks, from the pilot's chair._

_Yondu raises his head, and Peter is relieved that the Ravager captain isn't dead. "Just get us the hell outta here!"_

_"__Yes, sir." Nardo begins the takeoff procedures, trying to hurry as much as he can._

_"__Did you get the stuff?"Peter asks._

_Yondu gives him a glare as Kraglin lays him down and gently eases his coat off. "No, we didn't get the stuff! We're lucky we got outta there alive! Don't ask dumb questions, just get the first aid kit! I ain't the only one hurt!"_

_Peter wants to find out what happened, but now is not the time. He brings over the shuttle's first aid kit, about the same size as the lunch box he used to bring to school. Kraglin opens it and takes out the sealant and the antiseptic. He opens Yondu's shirt and reveals a nasty-looking gash that's longer than Peter's hand._

_"What's all that blue stuff?" the boy asks, noticing something smeared all around the wound._

_"What blue stuff?" The first mate looks down, and then he sees it. "Oh, that's his blood."_

_"His blood is blue?"_

_"What color'd you think it was?"_

_"Red. Mine is red."_

_"Not every race has red blood. Some are blue, some are kinda purple." He dabs a bit of the antiseptic onto a rag and begins cleaning the blue blood off. Peter looks away, now that he knows what it is._

_"You mean you didn't know that blood came in different colors?" Kraglin sounds almost amused. Yondu says nothing; he's awake, Peter checks, he's just not in a talking mood, it seems._

_"No. Never been in a firefight before. That what it was, a firefight?"_

_"Not . . . exactly."_

_"They still have spears and rocks!" one man says. Peter never does learn his name; he dies on a mission about two months later. He's sporting a wicked collection of bruises and a gash on his head that bleeds red. So Xandarians have red blood too. That makes Peter feel a little better. At least he knows that even if he's hurt, he can still pass for Xandarian._

_"Spears and rocks still hurt when ya get hit with 'em," Yondu says. "We underestimated them. Primitive don't mean stupid. We're lucky to be alive. Ow! Watch it with that thing!" _

_Kraglin is applying the sealant to the wound, and the pointed plastic tip of the applicator slips a little bit. "Sorry."_

_"What happens if a lot of guys get hurt and need blood?" Peter asks. "Do we have enough different kinds for everyone?"_

_Yondu doesn't answer. Kraglin says, "We have a few types, but not everything. We encourage the more exotic types to save their own just in case."_

_"Oh. That sounds like a good idea. Am I considered exotic?"_

_Yondu laughs. "Kid," he says, "yer one of a kind."_

* * *

"That does sound like a practical solution," said Gamora. "Each of us draw a few pints of our own blood and save it for emergencies. That way, we know we always have some on hand."

Rocket put his hands up protectively. "Nobody's takin' my blood!"

"Relax," said Peter. "We're just storing it up. I'll do it, if it makes you feel better. You trust me, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I do trust ya. I just don't like the idea of someone takin' part of me for any reason."

"We'll keep it locked up, so it doesn't fall into the wrong hands."

"Where? Here?"

"For starters."

"Uh oh, I don't like the sound of that . . ."

"Is there a problem, friends?" Drax came back to see what was going on.

"We're fine here," said Gamora.

"Hey, Drax," said Peter, "what color is your blood?"

Drax looked at him as if he were slightly insane. "Why do you ask?"

"We had an idea just now, based on something that happened back when I was with the Ravagers. We should save up a pint or two of our own blood, just in case we get hurt and need it."

"That sounds reasonable. Do you anticipate us needing medical attention often?"

"Well, I hope not, but stuff happens," he said. "That's what we were saying before. Can't be too careful. We might be light-years from a hospital with the proper supplies."

"I would hope this never happens. To answer your question, my blood is dark gray. Would you like to see?" He drew one of his knives and held it over his palm.

"No! No, that's okay, Drax, I believe you."

Drax nodded and sheathed the knife.

"So when do we do the Big Suck?" asked Rocket. "Here and now, or later?"

Gamora gave him a strange look. "One patient per day is enough. We can draw the blood another time. Besides, Peter needs to rest and recover."

"Eh, I'm fine," he said, and jumped down from the table. Upon landing, he wobbled and almost fell over. "Or not. Wait a minute, who's flying the ship?"

Everyone looked around. Rocket looked sheepish and said, "I kinda told Groot to watch the autopilot for me. I'll go back and take over."

"Good idea."

"By the way, Groot bleeds a kind of greenish sap. D'you need a sample of that?"

Gamora considered this. "He is a teammate . . . but I am not sure I have the equipment to extract sap. We'll worry about that later."

"Fine. See ya." Rocket went back up front, and Peter took another stab at walking. He hadn't expected to feel so weak; an injury to his torso shouldn't affect his legs.

"Let me help you." Drax held him up and walked with him back to Peter's cabin. "We will call you if we need you."

"Thanks, man. I'll just take a little nap." He closed his eyes and thought of pleasant things, like the smell of Gamora's hair, and the stars at night from his backyard, back on Earth. He hadn't expected to fall asleep right away, but somehow he did.

* * *

"You think he's all right?" Rocket asked Gamora, when she joined him in the forward compartment.

"He will be. He will need rest and attention."

"Oh, he loves attention. I just hope somethin' doesn't go wrong."

"Why do you say that?"

"It just seems like, every time we get to someplace good, something bad happens."

"Something bad did happen, today."

"Yeah, but now it's good again. We're due for some bad."

"How do you survive, being such a pessimist?" she asked him.

"I'm not a pessimist, I'm a realist. The reality is, life sucks. It sucks all the time. Sometimes it tricks ya into thinkin' it's gonna be okay, and then bam! Sucks again. All the stinkin' time."

"Things do get better," she said. She looked at him and tried to smile, but his words worried her. It **had **been going too well lately, hadn't it? But was that necessarily a bad sign?

"Yeah, but then they just get worse again. You go on being Little Susie Sunshine if ya want. Me, I'm gonna make sure our insurance is paid up and we're fully stocked on toilet paper."

"Toilet paper?"

"Think about it," he said, and turned back around. She decided to let it go for now.

* * *

Peter woke up feeling like his entire body was on fire.

Not literally, of course; he could tell just by looking that he wasn't actually on fire. But he was so hot he might as well be. His head felt fuzzy, too, and his vision didn't seem to want to clear itself. Everything was a blur that seemed a million miles away.

He tried to sit up and couldn't. Not only did it further aggravate the feeling of being on fire, but the wound in his chest erupted with white-hot agony. Had he torn his stitches out? He reached down and removed the bandage Gamora had placed over them yesterday-if it was yesterday. How long had he been asleep?

The flesh was an angry red, hot to the touch, and there was a nasty smell coming from the oozing gash.

"Great," he said, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own. "It's infected. I hate when that happens." He replaced the bandage, trying to press hard enough for it to stick but not hard enough to hurt, and tried to think what to do next.

At least he still had the mental clarity to call for help. If he couldn't get up, he'd have to call the others to him.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he sat up and reached above his head for the button. It hurt like hell, but he was able to get to it. "Hey, guys, I need some-aah!-some help here, if you don't mind. Maybe a doctor. Possibly a hospital. I mean, this looks really bad, and it feels worse."

He didn't know what else to say, so he left it at that and released the button, leaning back against the pillow and panting like he'd just run a marathon.

"Peter?" It was Gamora. "What's wrong?"

He didn't want to move again, but he'd have to in order to answer her. He reached up again and pressed the button. "I think my little owie's gotten infected. It's all red and there's stuff coming out of it."

"Do you mind?" Rocket interjected. "I'm eatin' here!"

"Well, I'm sorry if my life-threatening emergency is getting in the way of your dinner . . . breakfast? What time is it? What **day **is it?"

When Gamora answered again, she sounded worried. "You've been out for about twelve hours. Peter, let me come take a look at that. Then I'll decide what we need to do next. Hold on, I'm on my way."

He nodded before realizing that she couldn't see him. He closed his eyes just for a second. When he opened them again, she was there.

"Let me see it," she said, peeling back the covers.

"We haven't even had our first date yet," he said weakly.

"You know what I mean!" She removed the bandage and saw the oozing red flesh beneath. "I don't understand," she said. "This was fine when I treated it yesterday."

"I woke up, and it was like this. I've never had an infection set in so quickly before."

"Before? How often does this happen?"

"Oh . . . once or twice. I would hurt myself doing something stupid that I didn't want Yondu to know about, try to fix it myself, and end up on the critical list. Okay, maybe three times. But no more than that! Last time was . . . six or seven years ago, I think. Stuck myself with a rusty piece of metal, just put a bandage on it, and woke up three days later in the med bay."

* * *

_It all happens so fast, he doesn't notice until the pain bursts in his leg. At first he thinks he's been shot. But when he looks down, he sees a long, jagged shaft of metal sticking out of his thigh. He must have fallen on it._

_Yondu is elsewhere, and won't be meeting up with him for almost an hour, so maybe Peter can fix this himself before the rendezvous so the older man doesn't even have to know. He takes his portable first aid kit out of his bag and opens it. Then he pulls the metal out of his leg. _

_Boy, that's a lot of blood. Need to stop the bleeding before it gets worse. He finds a roll of gauze and a few cotton pads. Pressing the cotton on the wounds, one on each side, he then winds the gauze around and secures it with flesh-colored tape. There. That should hold it for a while. He rolls his pant leg down and hopes that Yondu doesn't ask about the holes in his pants._

_He gets away with it for two days, during which the pain gets too bad to ignore, but he can't admit to having injured himself in such a stupid way. He goes to bed early on the second day, claiming a headache._

_His sleep is one nightmare after another, but he can't seem to wake himself up. When he finally drags himself back to the land of the living, he's in the med bay, hooked up to monitors and IVs and all kinds of machines._

_"__What . . . happened?" he asks, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask on his face._

_The medic, Corfla, comes over to him. "You were found in your quarters, burning up with fever. When I examined you, I found this." He rolls back the sheet to reveal the now-properly-bandaged wounds on Peter's thigh. "Care to explain how that happened?"_

_"__Not really."_

_"__We've been giving you antibiotics since you arrived." Corfla always says "we," even though he's the only one here. He likes to pretend that he has a support staff working under him. He tells people that he was a surgeon in a prestigious Xandarian hospital, and though no one believes that _kark_, no one can disprove it, either. Whether or not it's true, he's a hell of a physician. Peter should have gone to him straight away, instead of screwing this up the way he did._

_"__Does . . . does Yondu know?"_

_Corfla chuckles. "Only reason he's not here now is because Kraglin finally persuaded him to go get some sleep. I doubt he actually did. I'll call him if you want."_

_"__No!" Peter cries out._

_Corfla looks at him quizzically. "Why not?"_

_Peter finally confesses what he did, and how stupid he was, and he hopes he doesn't lose his leg. Oh, and please, please, __**please **__don't tell Yondu what really happened._

_"__I'm afraid I have to. He has a right to know."_

_"__But he'll never let me go on a solo mission again! At least let me have some dignity!"_

_"__Let's get you well first. Then we'll worry about your next mission. Have we learned our lesson?"_

_Peter hangs his head. "Yeah."_

_"__Which is . . .?"_

_"__Don't try to hide injuries, and be sure and clean them out first before bandaging them."_

_"__Good boy." Peter doesn't know how old Corfla is; he's looked exactly the same since Peter arrived nearly twenty years ago. Maybe his race is long-lived. Maybe he's just got one of those faces that never seem to age. Whatever the reason, he's always called Peter "boy," even long after the boy became a man._

_So for now, they have a secret. And Peter really has learned his lesson. He never lets a wound get infected again._

* * *

"So how did it happen now?" he wondered. "I mean, you were so careful with it. You cleaned it out pretty well, I thought."

"Perhaps not well enough," she said, looking at it more closely. "This would seem to require professional medical attention. We'll set a new course for the nearest hospital. In the meantime, try to get some rest."

"Yeah, I'll do that." But he wasn't sure that he could. He was tired, sure, but every time he shifted the slightest bit, the pain would slam into him again. And the fever had to be pretty high, too.

_So this is it, _he thought. _I'm finally going to die of being stupid. Why didn't I see that the guy had a knife? And why didn't I flarking __**duck**__?_

At least, he thought bitterly, Yondu would never know about this one.

* * *

The arrow hovered at a point directly between the Questrian's eyes.

"Now tell me again," Yondu said patiently, "what you did to my boy."

"He was stealing the Eye of Argon!"

"Which you stole from its rightful owners, if my intel is correct. He was just bringin' it back where it belongs. One more time." The arrow quivered in the air in front of the assassin's horsey face, and the Questrian swallowed nervously. "Did you kill him?"

"Not-not yet."

"What the hell does that mean, _not yet_?"

"There's a toxin on the blade! Kills most sentient species in twenty-four hours! Please don't kill me!"

Yondu smirked. "Why should I spare yer life? You didn't show Quill no mercy."

"I-I-I have the antidote! In my pack! Third small pocket on the front!"

"Kraglin, reach in and get that fer me, will ya?" Yondu never took his eyes off the Questrian's sniveling face.

Kraglin nodded and retrieved a small glass vial from the pocket. "This it?" he asked, holding it up.

"Yeah! Three drops of that'll counteract the toxin! But you gotta give it to him in the next twelve hours!"

"We'll do that," Yondu said. He turned away as if no longer interested. The Questrian breathed a sigh of relief.

Yondu turned around and let out one short, piercing whistle.

The arrow dipped slightly, punched right through the Questrian's throat, and then returned to Yondu's hand in one motion. Yondu smiled, wiped green blood off the shaft, and tucked it back into its notch on his belt.

Kraglin looked down at the fresh corpse. "That's twice someone's tried to kill that boy. Can't be a coincidence."

"Yeah, maybe I shoulda asked him who he was workin' for," Yondu said regretfully. "Didn't think of it. Oh, well, we'll get 'im when he tries again."

"**When **he tries again?"

Yondu nodded and tucked the vial of antidote into his front pocket. "Let's go, boys," he called to the other Ravagers who were currently looting the Questrian's belongings. "We got a ship to catch!"

* * *

Peter was getting worse.

Gamora mopped his fevered brow with a cool cloth, but it wasn't really helping. The wound was looking worse as well; it was now oozing a thick black pus that smelled horrible.

Groot had taken up the chair at Peter's bedside, and he was crooning a wordless tune that sounded soothing. There was little else he could do right now. They were en route to a hospital on Legar, a small but well-developed world that served as a way station for travelers. Hopefully they could find out what this was and treat it appropriately, since it appeared to be resistant to standard antibiotics.

The intercom came on. "Gotta message comin' through," said Rocket.

"If it's anyone but Nova Prime," Gamora told him, "I'm busy."

"Nope. It's Yondu. Says it's important."

"I'll just bet it is. Fine, put him through."

A moment later, the Centaurian's voice filled the small cabin. "How's my boy?"

"Not good," she said. "He's got a life-threatening infection, and we're trying to get him to a hospital in time."

"Don't bother. I got the cure right here."

"What?"

"Tracked down the bastard who did this to 'im. He said there was a toxin on the blade, and he gave me the antidote. Well, I took it from 'im after I killed 'im, but I got it."

A toxin? Was that possible? "How do you know he wasn't lying to you?"

"Man tends to tell the truth when his life's on the line."

"But you killed him anyway."

"Nobody hurts my boy and lives. That goes for you, too, darlin'; break his heart, and I'll make you regret it."

"You're welcome to try," she said, but she was smiling. There was hope after all. "How far away are you?"

"'Bout an hour. This ship moves fast when I want 'er to."

"We'll wait here for you, and then dock in your hangar bay. I just hope he holds on until then."

"Don't you worry 'bout him, sweetheart. He's been through worse, always pulled through. This time won't be any different. See ya in an hour."

Gamora nodded and went up front to inform the others of the change in plan. She was gone no more than two minutes, but when she returned to Peter's bedside, his fever had gone up again. And all she could do was wait, and hope that Yondu hadn't been double-crossed by a dead man.

* * *

"Initiating docking procedures." Rocket didn't have the faintest idea what he was doing, but the ship seemed to be able to dock itself without his help. Maybe it knew it was coming home.

Before they had even come to a full stop, Groot came forward, carrying Peter in his arms like a baby. "I am Groot," he said mournfully.

"He's still alive, ain't he?" Rocket asked.

"I am Groot."

"Well, good. Let's hope this stuff Big Blue has actually works." He popped the hatch, and they went out to find Yondu himself waiting for them.

"Let's get our boy here to the med bay," he said. "I'll take 'im."

"I am Groot!" Groot refused to let go until Rocket rushed to his side.

"It's okay, Groot! He'll be okay! We gotta trust him. Just . . . just let him go, okay?"

Groot looked from Rocket to Yondu, then down at Peter. Reluctantly, he handed the sick man over to his adoptive father, who carried him all the way to the med bay and laid him gently on the bed.

"Three drops," he said. "I don't see a dropper, do you?"

"I'm tryin' not to look too close at things in here," Rocket snapped. "Bring back some bad memories."He climbed up on a counter, out of the way, and sat watching the others work.

Gamora spoke up. "I'll see if I can find a dropper somewhere in here. If that doesn't work . . . we'll try the hospital."

"Hospital can't do nothin' for him now."

"You don't know that. I won't give up on him. No matter what."

"I am Groot," Groot said, holding out a branch. On the end was a bright blue flower. Yondu looked down at it for a moment, and then took it.

"Thanks," he said, almost reluctantly.

"Is there anything I can do?" asked Drax.

"Yeah. Find the damn medicine dropper! Gotta be here somewhere!"

Gamora was already pulling out every drawer she could find and digging through them to find the dropper, but it was no use. Even when Drax started dumping everything on the floor to look through it, it was still an impossible task. Peter would have likened it to a search for a needle in a haystack, if he had been conscious enough to see what was going on.

"We ain't got a lotta time here!" Yondu shouted.

"We are doing the best we can!" Gamora shot back. "Wait, I think I've got it!" She held up the implement in question.

"Well, give it here!" Yondu held out his hand impatiently, and she handed it over to him. Then he had to get the top off the antidote bottle, fit the dropper inside, and suck up three drops.

Now came the really hard part: getting Peter's mouth open wide enough to fit the dropper in.

"I can force his jaws open," said Drax.

Gamora shook her head. "Let me try something a bit more subtle." She bent down and stroked Peter's cheek. His mouth opened slightly, and Yondu stuck the dropper into the opening and squeezed off the three drops.

"Now," he said, "all we gotta do is wait."

The Guardians looked at each other anxiously. Waiting was all they had done so far, and it hadn't helped. In fact, things had just gotten worse.

"Go on, get outta here! I'll stay with 'im. I'll let ya know . . . one way or the other."

They went back to the ship to wait there. Rocket was the first one to speak. "Well? What's happening?"

"Nothing, yet," Gamora told him. "We don't know how long this antidote will take to work . . . if it does work."

"Don't say that!" Rocket cried out in anguish. "He's gonna be okay! He's just gotta be!"

"I am Groot!"

"The blue one is a man of his word," said Drax. "At least where Quill is concerned. We can trust him with our comrade's life."

This seemed to satisfy the others, and they settled down to wait for news. Hopefully good news.

* * *

The stuff worked fast; it was less than an hour before Peter woke up. He stared up at the white ceiling of the med bay in confusion. Was this another dream?

When he saw Yondu's face hovering over his, he was even more sure that this had to be a dream. "Okay," he said. "I don't like this dream anymore. I want to wake up now."

"You are awake, boy."

"No . . . I can't be. How did I get here?" He reached down and felt his chest. "What happened? How long have I been asleep?"

"Settle down, boy. I'll explain everythin', but ya gotta rest first. You don't know how close you came to goin' out like a light. If I hadn't tracked that son of a _gath_ down and forced him to hand over the antidote, you'd be dead right now."

"Antidote?"

"Fer the toxin on the blade. Didn't know 'bout that, did ya? An' they were gonna take you to a hospital!" He snorted. "Hospital's where you go ta die! An' yer not dyin' on me any time soon."

"Gotta die of something," Peter said.

"Not if I c'n help it." Yondu laid a hand on the younger man's forehead. "Fever's comin' down now. You'll be fine in a day or two. Yer welcome to stay here 's long 's it takes."

"Thanks, Dad." Peter smiled and lay back against the pillow, which smelled faintly of antiseptic.

"And next time," Yondu said as he made his way to the door, "don't wait fer a life or death emergency to come home. Yer welcome here anytime."

"Good to know. Where are you going?"

"Gotta go let those friends 'a yours know yer awake. Be right back. Don't go back to sleep now!"

"I won't," Peter said, though of course, by the time the others made it to the med bay, he had already drifted off. He looked so peaceful, though, that they didn't want to disturb him.

"See?" Rocket said. "Good follows bad follows good follows bad. It's an endless cycle."

"That is comforting, is it not?" said Drax. "At least when something bad happens, we know something good will follow soon."

"See?" said Gamora. "That's a much better way of looking at it."

"All right, whatever!" the raccoon snapped. "The glass is half-empty; the glass is half-full. Whatever."

"Where is this glass you speak of?" Drax looked around as if it might be on a nearby table. "Glass of what?"

"Never mind! Let's get outta here, Groot. Groot?" Rocket looked around. "Groot! Where'd ya go?"

There couldn't be many places in a room this size that a six-foot tree could hide. Rocket searched and eventually found his best friend staring into a glass-fronted refrigerator in a little nook off the main room.

"I am Groot . . ."

"That must be the blood bank. Wow, lookit all the pretty colors. Red, and blue, and purple, and . . . is that orange?"

"That's Terganite blood," said a voice behind them. "We had one aboard a few years ago. Didn't last long, unfortunately. It's a dangerous life, this."

At the others' curious looks, he chuckled. "Oh, sorry. Should have introduced myself. I'm Corfla Ka'aa, Chief Medical Officer. Well, truth be told, **only **medical officer. Is there something I can help you with?"

"You really got everyone's blood in here?" Rocket asked. "Everyone on the whole ship?"

"Every last one of them," the medic confirmed. "From the captain-and he's a hard one to get to sit still long enough to get the job done-right down to the newest newbie. One of the first things we do, in fact, after we've noted their burial preferences. Like I said, it's a dangerous life."

"Is Peter . . . all right?" asked Gamora.

"Oh, he's fine. I've gotten him through worse. He won't be ready to leave till tomorrow at the earliest, so make yourselves at home. You're welcome to wait here as long as you stay out of my way, though I warn you, he probably won't do anything more interesting than sleeping. That boy is a champion sleeper. If sleeping were an event in the Galactic Games, he'd take the adamantium medal."

"Know 'im pretty well, do ya?" Rocket asked.

"Oh, yes. Sad to say, but he's been a regular presence here over the years. Terrans are so fragile, you know."

"Did you know he didn't have an appendix?" Gamora inquired.

The medic looked sheepish. "I thought perhaps he'd had it removed at birth. I had noticed . . . abnormalities in his charts, but since I'd never treated a Terran before, I wasn't sure how serious they were. I kept him alive, in any case."

"You got his blood in there?" Rocket asked.

"Of course, though the supply has been depleted. I'll have to take more, but not now, of course. It can wait until he recovers."

"Good luck with that," said Gamora. "As you might have noticed, he's not exactly the most cooperative patient."

"Oh, I know. You should have seen him the first time he came in here. Tiny little thing, so frightened of everything. The trouble started when I went to give him his shots."

* * *

_The moment Corfla sees the small boy enter the med bay with Yondu, he takes an interest. At first, he mistakes him for Xandarian, an error that becomes quite common over the coming years. Whatever his origins, it's unheard of for a child to be aboard this ship. Unless . . ._

_"__This can't be our little Terran," he says to Yondu._

_"__Oh, he is. This is Peter. Pete, this is the doc. You do what he tells you, now."_

_The boy is nervous, uneasy, looking around the room as if he expects something to jump out and bite him. _

_"__Well, why don't you hop up here," Corfla says, patting the edge of the examining table, "and we'll sort you out right now?"_

_Peter looks up at the table with wide eyes, and he starts backing away slowly. It's clear the boy is terrified, but of what?_

_"__Oh, don't worry. I won't do anything that'll hurt you, except for one small blood sample. But I promise that'll only hurt for a second. Do you need a boost?"_

_Peter shakes his head. Slowly, resolutely, he climbs up and sits on the edge of the table. His eyes flick from Yondu to Corfla, and back again. His body is stiff with tension; this kid is frightened to death-but of what?_

_"__We'll start with baseline readings. Here, why don't you put this down for a second?" He starts to remove the kid's bag, but Peter holds onto it tightly. _

_"__I'll take that," Yondu says, and slips it off the boy's shoulders. "I'll jes' hold it fer you."_

_Peter doesn't seem too happy about that, but he sits still while Corfla examines him. His vital signs are approximately equal to that of a Xandarian, which means that treating him should be fairly easy. Corfla finishes the examination, makes some notes, and then steps aside to speak to Yondu._

_"__This is not a four-year-old," he says. "Unless his species ages at twice the usual rate, I would put his age at eight or nine."_

_Yondu just shrugs. "Either the guy lied to us, or he don't know how to count."_

_"__At least we don't have to deal with an infant." He steps aside and begins preparing the standard vaccinations. He doesn't know what kind of diseases they have on Terra, or how susceptible the boy is to the ones out here, but better safe than sorry. Outbreaks of preventable diseases are a real problem on a ship this size._

_The moment he brings the tray over, with its assortment of needles of various sizes, the boy starts screaming._

_"__No! No! Get it away! I won't!"_

_"__Now, now." Corfla tries to reassure the boy, but he's not having any of it._

_"__They don't work! The treatments didn't work! They only made her sicker! Doctors lie! They told me she'd get better, and she didn't!"_

_"__Stop being a baby!" Yondu tries to hold him down, but Corfla intervenes._

_"__Captain, perhaps you'd like to step outside for a moment."_

_Yondu's red eyes narrow. "You kickin' me out?"_

_"__No, just asking you to let me confer with my patient in private. Won't take but a minute."_

_"__He's gonna run off the minute you turn yer back."_

_"__Then I won't. I'll call you when I need you, sir."_

_Yondu doesn't look too happy, but he leaves the room all the same. Once Corfla is alone with his small patient, they can talk._

_"__So," he begins. "Someone close to you was sick, and the doctors told you she'd get better, but she didn't?"_

_The boy shakes his head._

_"__That's very sad. Unfortunately, even doctors aren't omnipotent. We can't fix everything. But we try our best, and do all we can to make it better. I don't think they lied to you; they just wanted to keep hope alive for as long as they could. Was she your mother?"_

_"__Yeah."_

_"__How long ago did she . . . pass?"_

_"__I don't know. What time is it now?"_

_Oh, Great Sky. No wonder the boy is in such a state. He hasn't had time to grieve yet. "Peter, is it? Peter, I promise you this: whenever you're sick, or hurt, I will do everything in my power to help you, and I'll always be honest with you about everything I do for you. I will never tell you everything will be all right if I know for sure that it won't. But if there's even a slight chance of survival, the merest glimmer of a ghost of a possibility, I will keep that hope alive for as long as possible-while still being honest, of course. Is that good enough for you?"_

_The boy looks up at him. "Okay."_

_"__All right, then. Now, I've got to give you a series of shots that will protect you from some nasty diseases. I'm afraid they will hurt, but only for a moment. But I can tell you're a tough little fellow, and you can take it. Are you ready?"_

_"__Uh huh."_

_"__All right, then."There are eight altogether, and every time he prepares the next one, Corfla counts down from five before plunging the needle into the boy's arm. Peter, for his part, doesn't make a sound or even flinch. He toughs it out, and when it's all over, Corfla gives him one of the hard sugar treats he had prepared for the four-year-old he was expecting._

_Peter calls it a lollipop, and every time he ends up in the med bay, even as an adult, he looks for one. And Corfla is always happy to give him one._

* * *

"You really care about him," Gamora said.

"We all do. He's a very charming young man, I'm sure you've noticed. Didn't take long for him to have us all wrapped around his little finger."

Drax looked confused. "This is another metaphor, is it not?"

Rocket rolled his eyes.

"Well, then." Corfla nodded and started rearranging his supplies. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Actually," said Rocket, "there is."

"And what would that be?"

The raccoon was rolling up his sleeve. "We wanna do the blood thing, too. Cause our jobs are dangerous, too, and we can't always get to a hospital right away. Just make it quick, will ya, before I change my mind?"

Corfla smiled enthusiastically and started setting up a work station. Here was something positive to do with his time.

"Just promise me," Rocket continued, his eyes shut firmly, "that you won't draw off extra and sell it on the black market. I don't want no pieces of me that I don't know where they are. My blood stays with me. Got it?"

"Of course."

"Now does seem an opportune time to get this done," Drax admitted. "I will go next."

Gamora looked across the room at Peter, sleeping peacefully in the curtained bed with Groot keeping watch over him, and knew that he was in good hands. Whether their blood was red, or green, or blue, or gray, or even sap, they were one family.


	3. Legs

_(Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who favorited and followed this story! Here's the long-awaited next chapter.)_

* * *

Every step was an agony. Every time he lifted one foot off the ground, he was sure that this would be the time that his throbbing legs would give way and send him sprawling to the pavement, gasping for breath and praying for an end to it all.

Up ahead, his teammates raced toward their objective with greater stamina than his fragile half-Terran body possessed. If he called out, would they come back for him, or abandon him to his fate?

Rocket, who was perched high on Groot's shoulder, looked back and saw his lagging comrade. "Hey, Pete, hurry up! We're only half a klick from the finish line!"

Peter raised his head and saw the balloon arch up ahead. All around were cheery signs in half a dozen languages that all said variations on YOU CAN DO IT!

_No, I can't, _he thought. _Ask me to do a personal appearance at a charity walk, fine. They didn't tell me I'd have to __**walk **__the whole thirty-five klicks!_

He'd thought it would be a five-minute hand-wave, not six hours in the hot sun pounding the pavement! If he'd known, he never would have agreed to do the whole thing. How stupid would it be to survive two assassination attempts and die from taking a flarking **walk**?

A cluster of young girls ran past him, long-legged and long-haired and beautiful. He would have enjoyed the sight if he hadn't been so tired and sore. All he could do was plod on and hope he made it to the finish line soon, before his legs gave out and he fell in an undignified heap.

A few minutes later, and no closer to the end, he decided that he didn't care what kind of spectacle he presented, he just wanted this over now!

"Come on, legs," he said out loud. "Just a few more steps. Then you can have the rest of the day off. Come oooooon!"

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the huge FINISH banner appeared in front of him. Just a little further . . . just a few more meters . . .

He stumbled through the balloon arch, and a pretty pink-skinned girl gave him a high five while her green-skinned companion dropped some kind of ribbon around his neck. Peter looked down and saw a medal of shiny foil resting against his chest.

_Yay, I won the gold medal. Wait, it's not gold. Silver? Platinum? Adamantium? What's this supposed to be?_

He never stopped; if he stopped even for a second, he'd never get started again. This philosophy had worked for the last ten kilometers, and he wasn't giving up on it anytime soon. He plodded up the hill (why was there a hill?) and joined his friends, who were lounging around eating ice cream.

"Let's go," he said. "I need, in order, a hot shower, some food, a drink, and twelve hours of sleep. That last one is **not **optional."

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Rocket asked him.

"Other than the fact that I just walked halfway across the planet?"

"Aw, stop bein' a big baby! Next you'll be wantin' us to carry you home!"

"Would you like me to carry you?" Drax asked, in all seriousness.

Peter briefly considered the offer, then shook his head. "Nah, it's not that far. Just don't expect anything from me the rest of the day. I am **done**."

* * *

The shower felt good, so good that he lingered under the warm water as long as his legs would hold him. He washed all the day's grit and grime off his body and then just stood there, letting the water wash over him. The warmth helped to un-knot aching muscles and relax his tired body. It was only reluctantly that he shut off the water and then stepped out of the shower stall, nearly tripping on the bath mat.

Rocket was waiting outside the door, towel in hand. "Bout time. You left some hot water, I hope?"

"It all recycles. We've been living off the same water for months now. Haven't you noticed?"

"You mean . . ." Rocket looked at him askance. "That is disgusting! We're takin' on fresh water the first chance I get!" He shoved his way into the bathroom, but couldn't resist one parting shot over his shoulder. "Recycling the water! Really!" Then he slammed the door.

Peter wondered if he should maybe have told the raccoon about the ship's bivalve recycling system, which separated the drinking supply from that used for washing and flushing, but he decided it was just as well. Besides, he needed sleep **now**.

Peter didn't bother setting his alarm that night, relishing the opportunity to sleep in. The pressure of his bladder woke him around 0730, and he cautiously rolled over and tried to set his feet on the deck.

So far, so good. Then he made the mistake of standing all the way up.

It was as if someone (Thor, maybe?) had taken a massive hammer and slammed it into the base of his spine. His calves pulled on his thighs, which pulled on his hips, which pulled on his back. His shoulders were tight as well, making it hard to lift his arms.

_But I was just __**walking**__! How could I hurt this much from just walking?_

His bladder wouldn't wait, so he hobbled as carefully as he could to the bathroom, which was mercifully free, and relieved himself, leaning against the wash basin and gritting his teeth. Standing was hard, but having to lower himself onto the seat would have been impossible. He finished as quickly as he could, shuffled to the sink to wash his hands, and then faced a dilemma: should he attempt to go get himself breakfast, or just go back to bed and not move for the rest of the day?

Bed was tempting, but so was the smell of coffee from the galley. So tired . . . but so hungry, too . . .

Maybe he could have breakfast in bed! Yeah, that was it! Surely someone would take pity on him and bring him a tray, if he asked nicely. He went back to his room and hit the button on the intercom.

"Hey, guys, any chance of one of you bringing me some breakfast? I'm kinda . . . not in any shape to walk around today."

No answer. He waited a few minutes and tried again.

"Please? I'll do all of your chores for a week, as soon as I'm able to do anything. I'm begging here!"

Still nothing.

"Hello? Guys? What's up with the silent treatment?" It was beginning to look like Peter would have to get his own breakfast, no matter how he was feeling.

And that meant going downstairs.

Slowly, and extremely painfully, he made his way down the ladder, clinging tightly to the metal rungs because if he fell, even from only a few feet up, he'd never be able to get up again. Lying on the floor in pain (well, in **more **pain) and calling for help was not on his agenda of things to do today.

Eventually he reached the bottom, gingerly setting his feet on the deck and trying not to put too much weight on them. He limped into the kitchen, where he found a plate of food and a note:

_Peter,_

_We got a call about a delivery early this morning. It's only fifty klicks away, so we borrowed ground transport. Since you were __not feeling well, we opted to go without you. We should be back in a few hours. We saved you some breakfast__. See you soon._

_Gm, R, Gt and D_

So he was alone. Great. At least they'd left him some food. And it was still fairly warm, which meant they hadn't left all that long ago. And since he hadn't actually eaten anything before falling into bed last night, he was doubly hungry. He devoured the food quickly and then wondered what to do next. The thought of having to go back up the ladder left him groaning in anticipated agony, and he laid his head down on the table and simply went to sleep right there.

He woke suddenly a short time later. There it was again-that noise that could only be the creak of the door. "Guys? That you?"

There was no answer.

"Hello? You're not still mad at me, are you?"

The silence persisted.

"Okay, whatever. I'm going back to bed. Um, thanks for the food. I'll call if I need anything."

He started for the ladder, groaning inwardly at the thought of having to fight gravity again, when there was the tone of an incoming message.

_Might be them, _he thought. _Maybe they're not back after all._

He pressed the button. "What's up?"

A familiar blue face filled the screen. "Oh, hey, Pete. I was gonna leave a message. Didn't think you'd be there."

"Oh, I'm not goin' anywhere today."

"What's the matter? You sick?"

"No, I . . . I did a long charity walk yesterday, and now it hurts to move."

If he was expecting sympathy, he should have looked elsewhere. "You did **what**? What kinda dumbass move is that? Half the galaxy's tryin' ta kill ya, and you sign up for a charity walk? Whyn't ya just slap a damn target on yer face?"

"I didn't know we'd have to do the whole thing! I thought it would be just a brief public appearance, you know, to bolster our image."

"Keep it up and yer next 'public appearance' is gonna be at yer own funeral!"

"Okay, okay. I've learned my lesson. I won't do it again."

"Good, cause I can't save yer ass **every** time. That's why I called. There's another assassin on his way to you, so get outta there while ya still can."

Peter sighed. "I just told you, I can't!"

"Ain't no such thing as can't! Take off before he finds ya!"

"I can't. I mean, I really can't. The rest of the team is off on a mission, and they won't be back for a while."

Yondu looked incredulous. "They left you alone?"

"I would've been a liability."

"An' comin' back an' findin' yer dead body wouldn't be? I'm gonna have words with that bunch one o' these days. Some help they are."

"I'll be fine. I've got my-" Wait, no, he didn't. His favorite weapon was in his room, in the locked drawer under the bunk. "Well, I'll manage."

"The hell you will. Not in the state yer in now. I'm on my way." And then Yondu clicked off without so much as a goodbye.

"Yeah, whatever." Peter shrugged and started back toward the ladder . . . only to hear that creak again. He went to a panel and typed in the access code for the computer system. When it came online, he typed an inquiry: LIFE FORMS ON BOARD AT PRESENT?

_Working . . . _And that infuriating whirly icon that went round and round and never stopped.

There was a beep, and the whirly thing was gone. _Two life forms aboard at present. One unknown. _

Okay. So he was alone on the ship with an assassin, who knew he was here alone and knew that he knew that he/she/it was here. Where would he/she-screw gender correctness; Peter was calling him "he" until he was proven otherwise-be hiding?

_Where would I be most vulnerable?_

His own room. The one place he would think would be secure.

"Oh, I'm coming for you now," he said, and started up the ladder. Two steps up, his foot slipped, and he crashed down to the floor and blacked out.

* * *

_Once upon a time, there was a boy who could fly . . ._

_"__Woo hoo!" Peter is hovering three meters in the air, and he finds he's really getting the hang of these jet boots. They are the most awesome thing in the universe! Even though they have to be stuffed with paper to keep them from falling off, and he still hasn't mastered the art of cornering yet. But look at him! He can fly!_

_"__All right, that's enough," Yondu calls up to him. "Time to come down now, Pete."_

_"__Aw! Five more minutes!"_

_"__You can practice some more tomorrow. Right now we gotta go or we'll miss dinner. You remember how to get down, doncha?"_

_"__I think so." He doesn't, and has a moment of panic when he floats up instead of down._

_Yondu laughs. "Tap yer heels together!"_

_"__Like Dorothy?"_

_"__Who the hell's Dorothy?"_

_"__Never mind."_

_"__Once to slow, twice to stop. Don't stop completely till yer closer ta the deck. Nice an' easy, now."_

_Peter taps the heels of the boots together once, and feels himself descending slowly, a few centimeters at a time. At this rate he won't get down till tomorrow morning. In his haste, he taps his heels twice . . . and drops like a stone._

_"__Shit!" Yondu moves quickly to catch the boy before he hits the deck. "What'd I just tell you? Wait till you're closer to the ground!"_

_"__I'm sorry! I thought I could speed it up a bit."_

_"__Yer gonna get yerself killed one 'a these days, brat. Now get them boots off and go wash up."_

_"__Okay." He pulls the boots off one by one, and sets them in the bottom of the open locker next to him. Then he pads across the room in his stocking feet. Just short of the doorway, he stops and turns back. "Thanks."_

_"Just d__on't do it again." _

* * *

Peter came to slowly, confused for a moment by the unfamiliar ceiling, until he remembered where he was and what was going on. He didn't know how long he was out; it could have been minutes or hours.

At least there wasn't a weapon pointed at his face.

Yet.

He stood up slowly, feeling a sick thump in his head, which must have struck the floor pretty hard, and his lower back. Great. As if he wasn't in enough pain already. But he had to get up that ladder. He knew what he had to do now.

_Get the boots, _he thought. _If I can't stand to put my feet on the floor, then all I have to do is find a way to not have to put my feet on the floor. And hope that he doesn't have jet boots too._

He climbed up the ladder, one slow, painful rung at a time. Halfway up, he started to feel dizzy, and he stopped and took a few deep breaths until the dizziness went away.

_If I don't die in the next five minutes, _he thought, _I'm gonna have to get checked out at a hospital. Hope I don't have a concussion._

He made it to the top without further incident, and limped to his room, all the while checking for anything out of place. Nope, nothing wrong here. Maybe he wasn't on this level. Or he'd been, but had moved on, picking up after himself so that Peter would never know he'd been there.

_Stop overthinking this, _he told himself. _Just stay alert._

The boots were right under his bed where he'd left them. He knew they'd work because he cleaned and tested them every three days, just to be safe. The last time he'd used them had been two days ago.

The problem, though, would be getting them on his poor abused feet. They were definitely sore, and he thought they might even have swollen a bit from all the pounding they had taken.

_You don't have a choice. It's literally do or die._

Best to get it done and over with all at once. He shoved his left foot into the boot, feeling a stab of pain up his leg, but he fought his way through it until his foot was all the way in. Now for the right foot.

His right foot was just a little bit bigger than his left, and that miniscule variance was the difference between a twinge of discomfort and the agony of his poor abused toes being squeezed to death. How would he ever stand up like this?

_In a few minutes, _he told himself, _you won't have to stand up at all. No weight on those little piggies. Crap, I hope my toenails don't turn black._

He gingerly laced the boots up, tight enough so they wouldn't slip off in mid-air but loose enough so that they weren't crushing his feet. Then he stood up, groaning, and looked around cautiously before exiting the room.

The controls for the gravity generator were in the utility closet off engineering, which meant he had to go downstairs again. He could just cheat and use the boots, but in case the assassin was watching, he didn't want to give away his advantage just yet. He'd just have to hold on tight and go as slowly as possible.

There were three switches, one for each level of the ship. He chose to shut them down in reverse order. "Three . . . two . . . one!"

When he started floating upwards, he remembered the jets and activated them with a quick tap. The intruder would probably have floated up to the top level by now, but Peter thought it best to check each one, just in case.

Nothing on the engineering level. He floated up through the hatch and checked the main living quarters. Nope, nothing there either. That meant that he had to be at the top, probably clinging on for dear life to the supports in the-

Oh, dear God.

"He's in the cockpit!" Peter put on an extra burst of speed, feeling the acceleration all the way up his spine. Yep, a hospital trip was definitely in his future. If he survived this.

_Don't think like that. I'll find him, and everything will be fine._

He heard the ping of an incoming message, but ignored it. Whoever it was would call back. He'd check the messages as soon as this was all over.

Seconds later, Gamora's voice filled the ship: "Peter, are you there? Are you still sleeping? We've finished the job and we're on our way back. Rocket said something about dumping the waste-water tank and refilling it with fresh water, so as soon as we've secured enough, we'll be coming back to the ship. I hope you've at least eaten something. See you soon."

The tank! If he could lure the assassin into the tank . . . wait, no, that wouldn't work. They'd had to install a locking mechanism after Groot, while still tiny, had accidentally fallen in and nearly drowned. But if he could disable it somehow, and **then **lure him into the tank and flush it out . . . yeah, that would do it! He floated all the way down and then looked up.

"Hey!" he called up through the open hatch. "I'm down here! Come and get me!"

The tank release was on the other side of the deck; all he had to do was wait for the assassin to come to him, trick him into entering the tank, and then dump it. It was only a two-and-a-half meter fall, unlikely to cause serious injury, but hopefully it would slow him down enough for Peter to lock down the ship so he couldn't get back in. The others could deal with him when they arrived.

What was taking so long? Didn't this guy want to get him or not? Peter looked up, and saw nothing. Then he realized that the assassin didn't have jet boots, and he was stuck way up at the top of the ship. He'd have to turn the gravity back on in order to get the guy down here.

He flew across the deck to the gravity controls, and turned them back on, one deck at a time. Top one first. He heard a thud as the assassin's body hit the floor. He reached for the middle-deck controls and switched them on. Another thump. Finally he took a deep breath and flipped the switch for the lower deck. Then he looked up.

The body that fell through the open hatch was smaller than he was expecting, but you couldn't always judge by size. Some of the toughest men Peter had ever met were only a meter and a half tall. He didn't stick around to get a good look, but took off running.

"This way!" He ran to the waste-water tank, skirted around it to the other side, and found the controls for the lock and turned them off. Now all he had to do was wait.

He didn't have to wait long. Running footsteps grew louder, and then the small form appeared in the doorway.

"Yeah, c'mon!" Peter taunted him. "I'm right here, fart-face!"

The assassin took two quick steps forward . . . and fell right into the open tank. Peter wasn't sure if he could swim or not, but since he wouldn't be in there long enough to drown, he didn't feel too bad. He pressed the huge green button marked WASTE WATER RELEASE.

There was a rumble and a roar, and the water level dropped sharply. There was a high-pitched scream and then a gurgle as the assassin was dragged under and out of the ship. Peter watched the water flow out of the tank, and then he locked it down again, until the others came back with fresh water. He went upstairs and sealed all the hatches so the guy couldn't get back in.

The chirp of an incoming message. Probably the others on their way back. Peter answered it this time. "Yeah?"

"Hey, Pete," Yondu said. "Jes' wanted ya to know that ya don't haveta worry 'bout that guy no more. We got him."

"What?"

"Nabbed him before he made planetfall. Called the Nova Corps to come pick him up, but he killed hisself with some kinda poison capsule 'fore they got here. Anyway, yer safe now. Yer friends get back yet?"

"Um . . . you know what, I hear them right now. I'll call you back," he said, and cut the signal. Then he unsealed the main hatch and ran outside.

Lying stunned in a huge puddle of water was . . . a kid. Couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old. He sat up and shook water out of his oversized ears.

"Hey," Peter said. "I'm-I'm really sorry, you know? I thought you were someone else."

The kid looked up at him. "That," he said, "was awesome! Can I do it again?"

"You're not mad?"

"I shouldn't 'a snuck on board, but I really wanted a picture. Didn't get one yesterday."

Peter bent down and helped him up. "Come inside and get dried off. What's your name?"

"Jerl."

"Hi, Jerl. I'm-well, you know who I am. You want some cookies?"

* * *

When the other Guardians returned, they found Peter sitting at the galley table with a small boy wearing one of Peter's favorite shirts, which covered the boy's whole body. "Hey, guys," Peter said. "Meet my new friend Jerl. He just dropped by for a photo."

Rocket looked down at the table and a snarl creased his muzzle. "My cookies!"

"You don't mind sharing, do you? Especially with our adoring public."

"You bet I mind! Those are **my **cookies! I paid for 'em with-"

Groot wrapped a long branch around him. "I am Groot!"

"But he can't just-"

"I am Groot!"

"All right, all right! But you're buyin' me more!" He sat down at the table and pulled the box over to his side protectively.

"Actually, Rocket, you'll be glad to know that I dumped the old waste-water like you asked. We can refill the secondary tank whenever you're ready."

"Great. Thanks. Wait-secondary tank?"

"Yeah, I meant to tell you. There are two water tanks. One for drinking and cooking, the other for washing and flushing. So we're not drinking something somebody else, um . . . you know."

The raccoon slapped a palm against his forehead. "Now you tell me!"

They had such a good time hanging out with Jerl that Peter decided not to tell his friends about the failed assassination attempt. It was a mistake that would come back to haunt him later.


End file.
